


Mycroft's Handy Fangirls

by MacPye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacPye/pseuds/MacPye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At John's birthday party, Mycroft drinks a little too much. Women fawn over him and want to test how good a kisser he is. Enter Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft's Handy Fangirls

**Author's Note:**

> Another fill for a prompt in the Sherlock BBC Kinkmeme on LJ;
> 
> "Mycroft has a really low alcohol tolerance. one glass of wine can turn him into a totally different person; he becomes affectinate, smilely, and kisses everyone and everything.
> 
> One day 221B Mycroft gets drunk, and he's kissing everyone, including Mrs Hudson who very much enjoys being kissed, then middle of all this, Lestrade sudeenly shows up and...
> 
> He's reaction is up to you. Does he feel jealousy? or.."

It was John’s birthday, and a crowd of people had gathered at 221B Baker Street. Well, it did seem like crowd, because all spaces were rather cramped, but that probably had more to do with the over-stuffed, messy character of the flat and one of its occupants, than with the actual number of people.

Mycroft, still stumped by the fact John had even _considered_ inviting him, wound his way up through the small  groups of people standing on the stairs. They appeared to be colleagues from work, or former mates from university, and even the odd Scotland Yard officer.

“Mycroft!” John called out from the kitchen, having spotted his flatmate’s brother reaching the top step on the stairs. The birthday man waved a bottle of what looked to be a chardonnay, obviously indicating Mycroft should approach. Mycroft slipped into the alarmingly messy kitchen and shook John’s hand, after which he handed over a wrapped parcel.

“I wasn’t really… Well, I didn’t really know what to get you,” he admitted. John handed him a large glass of wine, which he’d poured as Mycroft had carefully made his way to his side of the kitchen. He turned the parcel over in his hands.

“Try not to deduce what it contains,” Mycroft said, a small smile playing around his lips.

John laughed. “I wasn’t trying to! And anyway, I prefer presents to be a surprise.” He tore into the paper and let out a genuinely surprised gasp. He held up the cashmere jumper and looked at Mycroft in amazement. “This is absolutely amazing! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” said Mycroft, almost shyly. “I hope the colour agrees with you.”

“Yes! Of course! It’s – I don’t even – I don’t know what to say,” grinned John. “Best gift all night!”

Mycroft felt inordinately smug. “Including Sherlock’s?”

John barked out a laugh. “You _are_ joking, right? Sherlock hasn’t actually given me anything at all, yet!”

_Ouch_ , Mycroft thought. “I’m sure he won’t have forgotten,” he tried to reassure John. “Perhaps he just prefers to not give it to you when there are all these people around.”

John smiled his usual non-committal smile, spotted another newcomer, and excused himself.

Mycroft looked around, feeling oddly out of place and awkwardly lumbered with a rather too large glass of wine. He hadn’t had the heart to politely refuse it, but he rarely did drink wine, or any alcoholic beverage, for that matter. It dulled the mind when he usually preferred to keep it sharp. And when he did enjoy some – over dinner, perhaps – he certainly didn’t drink such a large quantity in one go.

He wandered around the room for a while, casually sipping his wine. He spotted a vacant seat on the sofa and carefully sank into it.

It didn’t take him long – despite the increased blood-alcohol percentage – before he noticed the woman in the chair on his left was looking at him sharply.

“Yes?” he drawled, turning to her.

“You seem familiar,” she said, “but I can’t place you.”

“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said, carefully extending his hand. His seat had become more cramped, and as the woman on his left shook his hand, he took a glance to his right. Another young lady had sat down beside him, making an apologetic face at him for creasing his jacket.

“Sally Donovan,” the woman he was shaking hands with said.

“Ah, of course,” Mycroft said, surprised his brain still managed to supply him with an answer to why she seemed familiar to him, in return. “Sergeant Donovan.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not just now,” she said. “I’m off duty now. So it’s ‘Sally’, if you don’t mind, Mr Holmes.”

“Don’t mind at all,” said Mycroft, flashing her a smile. “And I would be Mycroft.”

“Are you Sherlock’s brother?” the woman to his right asked. He turned to her as much as was possible, as, _goodness_ , another lady had parked herself beside the one addressing him – Mycroft recognized Sherlock’s landlady.

“I am, indeed,” Mycroft said, remembering to answer the question.

“I love your suit,” the landlady said, apropos of nothing.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said, feeling positively flattered, and without thinking, he stroked down his waistcoat. Sally Donovan sighed happily.

“I’m Molly Hooper,” the woman to Mycroft’s right said, in an attempt to draw his attention back to her.

“Pleasure,” said Mycroft, shaking her hand inasmuch as that was possible. “You’re the morgue attendant, yes?”

“Not tonight, though,” Molly said, trying for a cheeky grin, “tonight, I’m a _party_ attendant.”

“Yes,” said Mycroft, maneuvering in his seat to get more comfortable. Molly giggled. As he attempted to smooth down a crease in his left trouser leg, Sally sighed again. Mrs Hudson pressed another generously filled glass of wine into his hands.

There was a momentary awkward silence as Mycroft’s brain caught up with the tension now thick in the air, as the three women were – out of sheer desperation? Mycroft daren’t flatter himself – vying for his attention. He sighed, chuckled, then laughed with gusto.

“What’s the joke?” Sally asked, resting her hand on his wrist, close to the hand which held the wine glass.

He turned to her, his face still full of suppressed mirth, then cast another look at the landlady and Molly, before looking Sally in the eye again. “The three of you,” he said.

Sally frowned. “Do explain.”

“My dear,” he said slowly, putting his free hand on top of the hand she’d put on his wrist, “the three of you are barking up the wrong tree.”

They blinked at him, obviously not understanding.

He sighed. “The princess is in another castle?” he tried. Still nothing. “Give me bananas over apples any day?” The blank stares only seemed to increase. “I’d be more interested in the Eiffel Tower than the Niagara Falls?” Sally shrugged at him.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!”Mycroft exclaimed, albeit in amusement. “I ride a different train! I bat for the other team!”

Mrs Hudson laughed. “How many more analogies can you come up with?”

He looked at her, incredulous. Had she been pulling his leg? He burst out laughing. So did Sally and Mrs Hudson.

“I still don’t get it,” said Molly.

“He means to say he’s gay, dear,” explained Mrs Hudson, patting Molly’s knee. The young woman’s face fell.

The next unidentified period of time was spent in a daze of conversation, laughs and two more glasses of wine. Mycroft had to admit it was all a bit much, but the women were jolly enough company, and there didn’t seem to be any interesting men at the party, in any case. He did feel like flirting, so he mercilessly did so with the group of women now clustered around Sherlock’s saggy sofa.

Somehow, the combination of relaxation, his flirting and these curious, prying women had them ending up in a discussion on the differences between gay men and their heterosexual counterparts.

“Is it true that gay men are better kissers?” asked Sally.

Mycroft laughed. “My dear, I really wouldn’t know, I’ve never sampled a heterosexual man in order to compare!”

“Well, I have,” said Sally, “So I could sample _you_ , and let you know.”

“Oooh, a sampling!” cooed Mrs Hudson. “Yes, _please_!”

“Sounds like a good plan,” remarked Molly, feigning a studious look, failing, and grinning.

“Ladies!” Mycroft exclaimed in mock-alarm. “Not all at once! You know it really isn’t scientific if you only sample one gay man!”

“Oh, sod _scientific_ ,” said Sally, and closed the distance between her and Mycroft.

There was a breathless moment, and then Sally hummed appreciatively before breaking apart.

“I’d like to have the opinion of the others,” she said, after catching her breath, “but I for one think it’s a crying shame you don’t fancy women.”

From the kitchen, John and Sherlock watched in horror as Molly took her turn.

“ _Really_ , John,” Sherlock managed in a strangled voice. “Next time, you give him _orange juice_.”

“Sorry I’m late, was called out unexpectedly,” a gravelly voice said behind them, and only then, the two managed to tear their eyes away. It was DI Lestrade, carrying a plastic bag with more booze. John wordlessly took it from him. Lestrade frowned.

“What’s this, then?” he asked, looking at the spectacle of a dapperly suited man being pestered by women for a kiss.

“John’s given my brother wine,” said Sherlock. “And Mycroft is a light-weight.”

“I didn’t know!” John almost wailed. He groaned as Sarah made a move on Mycroft.

“He’s quite far gone,” Sherlock pointed out the obvious in an emotionless voice.

“The ladies seem to like him,” Lestrade said, whistling lowly as Mrs Hudson had a go.

“They’re having an _experiment_ ,” Sherlock said, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “They’re trying to find out if gay men are better kissers.”

“He’s _gay_?” Lestrade took a more careful look at the elder Holmes.

Sherlock turned on him sharply. “Why does this pique your interest?”

“You’re annoyed by the idea that I would be interested in your brother?” Lestrade countered the question with a knowing grin.

“Well, no, that’s not what I was implying _at all_ –” Sherlock tried to back-pedal.

“Oh, but you _are_!” Lestrade grinned gleefully. He turned back to the scene on the sofa just in time to see Sally having a second sampling. His face set in an odd mixture of amusement and determination. Without another word, he approached the sofa, leaving Sherlock and John in an even more stunned silence.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Lestrade said, plonking himself down onto the armrest of the sofa, between Sally and Mycroft.

“Sir!” Sally managed in her outrage. He turned to her, feigning innocence.

“Yes, Donovan?” he asked sweetly. “Oh, you mean my sitting down so unceremoniously? We-ell, there weren’t any seats left, you see?” He gestured around the room with a broad sweep of his arm, and while the women ascertained the veracity of his statement, he allowed the momentum of his arm to carry it over Mycroft’s head, after which it landed lightly around Mycroft’s shoulders.

Mycroft looked up at him, his face a picture of pleasant surprise with a hint of pants-twisting terror.

“I heard you allowed people to sample you,” Lestrade almost-purred.

Mycroft swallowed visibly. He couldn’t believe this was happening. This man, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, a man he had been glimpsing while on the fringes of crime scenes, a man he had repeatedly rewound on CCTV footage, just so he could watch him walk down a barren New Scotland Yard corridor again and again, _this very man_ was practically in his lap, with his arm round Mycroft’s shoulder.

Lestrade watched the adam’s apple bob up and down in that long, pale neck. In all fairness, he’d never been close enough to count the freckles on that column of skin, but he doesn’t regret his current position. In fact, he swung one leg over Mycroft’s knees, in a move so possessive, he could hear the women gasp.

“Well?” Lestrade said. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” Mycroft managed, his eyes fixed on Lestrade’s lips. He didn’t have long to contemplate them, because Lestrade swooped in as soon as Mycroft gave him the green light.

Mycroft’s lips were soft and pliant, and opened easily under Lestrade’s insistent tongue lapping at them. Lestrade licked his way into the velveteen warmth of Mycroft’s mouth, relishing every inch of it as he languidly sipped at the other man’s tongue, allowed his own tongue to follow the hard ridges of Mycroft’s teeth, and bit down gently on the other man’s lower lip. Mycroft hummed and groaned quietly, his hands finding their way around Lestrade’s waist, fisting the fabric of the DI’s shirt under his jacket.

There was a collective sigh from the women around them, when they finally surfaced from their private paradise. Lestrade sucked at Mycroft’s upper lip, then his bottom lip, nibbled gently on it and finally rested his forehead against Mycroft’s to catch his breath. He was slightly giddy at how his pulse was racing. It was something which hadn’t happened to him in a while. He was just about certain he had his breath back to normal when Mycroft nudged his nose, and those soft lips were on his again.

Mycroft tasted coffee and a hint of cigarette smoke, but mostly the same wine as the one he had been drinking. He carefully coaxed Lestrade’s tongue into the space where their lips met, and they twined in a glorious little waltz. He allowed his hands to wander further up Lestrade’s back, which encouraged Lestrade to card his fingers through Mycroft’s hair.

When their lips parted company again with an obscenely wet noise, Lestrade looked down on the havoc he’d wrought and felt immensely proud. Mycroft’s tie was askew, his hair was disheveled, his lips swollen and impossibly wet and pink, there was a flush going from somewhere under his collar over his cheeks up to his ears, and his eyes were wide, the pupils blown. It was the most mindbogglingly fantastic sight he had ever seen.

Mycroft managed something he thought he’d never been able to do again; coherent thought and speech.

“Would you care to proceed with this private party at my house?” he whispered huskily. He thought he sounded like a right prat, but Lestrade grinned in such a way that would suggest he thought differently.

“Yes, please,” he answered in his sandpapery voice.

All this time, silence had reigned in the kitchen.

John cleared his throat. “Right. Well. I don’t know about you, but I really fancy some whiskey.”

Sherlock finally blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it. “I think I’m with you on that.”

 


End file.
